


I was dead when I woke up this morning

by Lizicia



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, New Beginnings, Post-3x10, Romance, some quality being together time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizicia/pseuds/Lizicia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The car comes to a stop in front of a three-story red townhouse somewhere in Georgetown.<br/>“What’s this?”<br/>Red smiles next to her instead of an answer and drops a set of keys in her hand as Dembe has already come and opened her door.<br/>“This is home, Lizzie.”</p><p>Or post-3x10, Red gets Liz a new place. Ressler comes to visit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I was dead when I woke up this morning

**Author's Note:**

> I just had to, you know?  
> Title from Florence + the Machine "Seven devils".

The car comes to a stop in front of a three-story red townhouse somewhere in Georgetown.

“What’s this?”

Red smiles next to her instead of an answer and drops a set of keys in her hand as Dembe has already come and opened her door.

“This is home, Lizzie.”

She stares at the keys, uncomprehending. What even is home to her anymore? She hasn’t had one since she left the one she shared with Tom, in their previous life. It is mindboggling that he can drop something like this on her, like it is a normal thing to do.

“A home.”

“Your home. Go on, take a tour. We can have a splendid brunch tomorrow. You do still like brunch, don’t you?”

Red smiles with genuine affection and she steps out of the car, even if the whole situation is still far too unreal to believe. But then he and Dembe take off and she’s standing on the sidewalk, looking at the stairs in front of her and the bronze-colored door on top of them.

When Liz finally gathers her bearings, she goes up the stairs and it takes her a few tries to get the keys to turn correctly and finally makes her way to the third floor. She’s instantly drawn to the red door on her right and as her keychain tells her, apartment 3C really is be hers.

This is home.

It’s completely new but everything feels exactly like her – the colors, the furniture, even the linens.

She smiles to herself despite everything she’s been through because finally she’s done. She’s been through hell and while she won’t be an agent again – at least not any time soon – she also hasn’t been framed and convicted of treason, and she also hasn’t died.

There is a bottle of her favorite red wine on the kitchen counter and she contemplates it. The thought of drinking it alone doesn’t entice her in the slightest. She wishes Red had stayed, even if just for a little bit and the fact that he left her be twinges slightly.

Just then, a buzzing sound fills the apartment and she startles for a moment before realizing that it must be the buzzer downstairs.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Keen.”

A smile creeps onto her face without her volition. “Hey, Ressler. Come up.”

She doesn’t even question how he would know where she lives; Red doesn’t leave anything to chance.

When he knocks, she opens the door immediately and just looks at him, her former partner who caught her and then helped save her, for the first time in a while without a separating barrier.

“Reddington called.”

“I figured.”

They stand on the doorstep for a minute, just looking at each other before Liz realizes the weirdness of the situation and with a wave of her hand and a small laugh, invites Ressler in.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.”

He smiles wryly and she feels comforted, safe in the knowledge that he is there. It’s a feeling she’s come to associate with Ressler, whether he’s protecting her from Cabal hitmen or running after her in the middle of the woods, trying to catch her. He’s never stopped making her feel safe.

“I think this is all Mr. Kaplan’s doing.”

“Mr. Kaplan?”

“You really don’t want to know.”

There is a moment of silence when he looks at her, really _looks_ with the intensity he must show for every aspect of his life. She wonders what he is seeing and tries to imagine herself: jeans, boots, leather jacket, blonde hair. She feels wrong in this outfit, still the fugitive, still the traitor to her country.

“I brought you a housewarming gift.”

He produces a package from his coat pocket and Liz has seen enough of those to recognize it instantly.

“You brought me hair dye?”

“The blonde is…” He seems reluctant to finish the sentence but whatever he would say, she would probably be inclined to agree. The color was always a way to disappear, to move as far from Agent Liz Keen as she could and as a result, she hasn’t really been herself in a few months.

“Let’s get coloring then.” She quirks an eyebrow, perhaps expecting him to shriek away, to not dare meet her challenge but instead, he looks her straight in the eye and nods.

“Let me just get my jacket off.”

While he buttons up his shirt sleeves, she finds the bathroom – right next to her bedroom – and marvels at it. The bathtub catches her eye immediately and she’s drawn to it as it is a piece of luxury she hasn’t encountered in months.

“Are you ready?”

She turns around at Ressler’s voice and finds him standing much closer than she expected him to be, with his shirt sleeves up and a contemplative look on his face. She can almost feel the warmth radiating from him and the smell which is not aftershave but something so uniquely him and she really hasn’t had any downtime or enjoyable company in a while because all this is slightly maddening.

“Yeah, let me just…change.”

She flees the bathroom before she gives in to the not so unfamiliar urge to test the firmness of his arm or trace his cupid’s bow with her tongue and oh _fuck_ , she really needs to get a better handle of herself.

Her fingers tremble only ever so lightly when she changes into an old sports bra which she doesn’t mind getting any dye on. She strictly avoids considering the implication of letting Ressler see her in only a bra because she’s better than this. And so is he.

When he adopts a perfect deer in headlights expression at seeing her again, she realizes she could’ve reconsidered the last stance but merely pushes through.

“So, have you ever done this before?”

He snaps out of his momentary lapse and clears his throat before he manages to make a sound. “Yeah. I helped my mom when she was too sick to do it herself but still wanted to look nice. It’s been a few years but I think I should be able to remember.”

He offers nothing additional about his mother but she remembers it for another time. There is still too much she doesn’t know about Donald Ressler and she’s clearly going to change that.

“Let’s do this then.”

Ressler snaps on the latex gloves and mixes the dye together while she wets her hair. She lets the blonde strands catch between her fingers and stares at them, coming to the conclusion that she will not miss it. Blondes might have more fun but she is really looking forward to feeling like herself again.

She sits on the edge of the tub, a towel underneath her damp hair and while she’s perfectly aware what a dye job entails, she’s still not prepared for the feeling of his hands in her hair and jerks slightly.

“Sorry, it will probably be better if I do it like this. I can use the brush if you’d like but-“

“No, it’s fine. I was just not expecting it.”

She can’t say _I am afraid I will enjoy it too much_ but instead focuses on the sensations themselves. Ressler has strong hands, she’s always figured as much, and it almost feels like a massage, with the way he’s slowly but efficiently working the dye into her hair. She shivers a little when his thumbs graze the back of her head and a sliver of pleasure escapes her. Ressler, to his credit, either doesn’t notice it or chooses to ignore it as he twists her hair up and secures with a clip he’s found from somewhere.

“All done.” His voice sounds gruffer than before but maybe she’s just imagining things because this would be insane.

“15 minutes then.”

She keeps thinking how insane it all is, watching him wash the gloves and peel them off as her insides feel funny. It’s not really anything because it couldn’t possibly be anything. But then he turns to look at her and there is definitely _something_ in his expression, and she doesn’t exactly know what to do with it.

The sound of a knock on the door slices through the tension. Ressler’s expression turns wary and he draws his weapon, giving her a stern signal to stay put. She feels awkward and tense as she hears him approach the door and after a few seconds, open it.

“Hello, Agent Ressler. Compliments of Mr. Reddington.” She hears Dembe’s voice but when she makes it into the living area, the door’s already shut and Ressler stands in front of it, holding a bag full of takeout with Wing Yee’s written all over it and a bewildered expression on his face.

“At least this solves the problem of dinner.”

He lays it out in the kitchen while she opens the first cupboard which feels right and immediately finds plates. She repeats the instinctual search with glasses and cutlery and finds all of them on the first try, not even surprised with Mr. Kaplan’s talents.

The takeout is, unsurprisingly, all her favorite, and she enjoys the flavors bursting in her mouth and it feels like coming home. She figures this is all a part of Red’s plan to re-integrate her into her old life and she is grateful because this is what she really needs.

They eat quietly but Liz catches Ressler sneaking glances at her, as if he’s worried that she might either disappear or explode and she can’t really fault him. It has been a dreadful time.

“Your 15 minutes are up, by the way.”

She nods and finishes the last egg roll before heading back into the bathroom and turning the warm water on. The dark dye washes out of her hair easily but she struggles with holding the showerhead and trying to squeeze the water out simultaneously.

She feels Ressler in the bathroom before he touches her, so she’s not surprised when he takes the showerhead in his own hand and combs through her hair with the same soft and purposeful touches he used before until the water becomes translucent again. He wraps her hair in a towel – which she probably will have to throw away – as she stands. This time, he steps away from her before they come too close and she’s almost disappointed.

“I’ll clean up in the kitchen.”

Liz listens to him clearing the plates and the cartons while towel drying the hair until she has to take the hair dryer because she can’t stay another moment without feeling like herself.

The woman who finally looks back at her from the mirror is no more Elizabeth Keen, fugitive or Masha Rostova, Russian sleeper agent. It’s _her_ again.

The kitchen looks as spotless as ever when she returns but there are two glasses of wine sitting on the counter and Ressler’s doing something on his phone but the words seem to fail him when he sees her with the newly dyed hair again.

She picks up the glasses and hands one to him, smiling to herself at his awe-struck look.

“Aren’t we going to cheer?”

He smiles at that, finally, and clinks his glass against hers. “Here’s to your freedom.”

“To my freedom, indeed.”

They drink and she’s reminded of the time he made her celebrate her birthday with him, the last time she’d really been carefree and enjoyed something. And just like now, there was also Wing Yee’s and red wine and Ressler with a rare soft smile on his face.

“What do you think of the hair?”

“It looks like you again. I like it.”

“I thought gentlemen prefer blondes?”

“Not me.”

It’s an unexpected admission and she sees him tense slightly as the implication of these words hits him. He could backtrack, he could just leave the apartment and then they would go back to being who they’ve always been, except this time they’re not partners anymore.

“We’re not partners anymore, you know.”

She feels daring and wild, and throws that at him; a loophole she suddenly wants to take advantage of.

“I know.”

He gives her only that little bit, an inch at most but she’s tired of not taking chances when they matter, not pushing when she has the chance. And maybe it’s been a long day and maybe she shouldn’t push right now but – she’s tired of never pushing at all.

“Did you read what I wrote in my last will?”

“Of course not.”

She smiles; of course he would be too honorable to find out what her dying words would’ve been.

“I didn’t read it because I was not going to let you get killed.”

_Oh._

“I didn’t just write my will. I thought about what I would want to say, what needed to be said and I realized there is only one thing that makes sense.”

He looks at her with a mixture of apprehension and hope and it makes her feel like this will not blow up in her face, so she puts down her wine glass and his own and steps closer, grazing his fingers with her own and slipping her hand into his palm.

“Here are my last words, then: _I wish we had tried, Donald_.”

She squeezes his hand briefly in warning and before he can really react, surges up to kiss him.

For a brief moment, he must be too stunned to respond and she would be fine with this just being her way of acknowledging what could be said, so she starts to pull back. That is the motion which finally gets to him and his other hand comes up to the back of her head and he pushes her back and really kisses her.

His mouth moves against her own with unerring precision and unmistakable heat and when he parts her lips with his tongue, she can taste the wine and the mint he must’ve had sometime after dinner, as well as the wildness he’s always kept on a leash. He caresses her back and traces her spine with his fingers, leaving fiery trails on her skin and she has to break away from his mouth to let out a moan which is threatening to steal all her breath.

While she’s always thought that anything too loud, too obvious would scare him off, it has the opposite effect and he moves to kiss her jawline, her neck, behind her ear and if she had any wit left, she would be almost embarrassed by the whimpering sounds she makes. The pleasure expands and carries all over her in a rush of excitement she hasn’t felt far too long.

When she manages to open a couple of buttons on his shirt and sneaks her hand inside to touch his skin in turn, he suddenly realizes what is happening and slows down the kisses until he finally pulls away to look at her.

“If you say that this was a mistake-“ Liz starts off threateningly but the smile on his face does not seem to be an indicator that this is where he would be going.

“I was going to say that we should slow things down. You’ve had a shitty time lately.”

And to credit his words, he doesn’t let go of her waist and brushes her hair tenderly. “I am glad we’re trying, though.”

He doesn’t ask anything more of her, doesn’t run away or put any obligations on her but after months where nothing good happened, this is enough. This will be enough for times to come.


End file.
